Cupid & Psyche
by Emily-Mel
Summary: A five-part series by Em, this story explores Quatre and Trowa's relationship after ep.49. Does contain some spoilers, but it is a lovely re-telling of an ancient myth.
1. Some Enchanted Evening?

**CUPID AND PSYCHE **   


Welcome to this, my first completed GW fic. I hope you enjoy reading it and will not hesitate to contact me in regard to your impressions of this effort. A few notes before we start: text in single quotes ('...') represents thought. Italics will be used in a later segment for another purpose, so please remember this point.   
Category: Romance   
Rating: PG  
--Emily 

* * *

**Part 1: Some Enchanted Evening?**   
  


* * *

Two figures stroll through dark Parisian streets beneath the ancient cathedral's protective gaze. The shorter one stops at the end of a bridge, leaning against a stout railing. Moonlight glints off blonde hair as the figure takes in the city's nighttime scents and sounds. In awe of the sight of twinkling stars and a solitary passing cloud, it speaks to its companion in hushed tones. 

"The Earth is so beautiful, Trowa. I don't think I'll ever get tired of it. I only wish it hadn't taken a war to get others to appreciate it so." His partner gracefully perches himself nearby on the stone railing. His unusual hairstyle creating a most singular silhouette, he stares not at the surrounding natural glories, but at the softly lit figure beside him. 

'But this war brought me to you, my heart.' 

"To think it could all have been destroyed so easily. We must not ever forget how fragile life is. Or how delicate the balance between peace and war." 

'To think you could have died just a few short months ago. This world would still have been saved, but mine would have perished with you. How could someone as seemingly delicate or fragile survive after that attack? There was so much blood everywhere... you were so pale I was afraid there wasn't a drop left inside... I can still see it in my nightmares.' 

They lapse into a comfortable silence, each lost in their separate trains of thought until the blonde notices the other's scrutinizing looks. "Well, Mr. Chatterbox, credit for your thoughts?" 

Shaken from his reverie, Trowa turns toward the lazily flowing river below. "I was just remembering the last time I was here," he quickly lies. "Years ago, before I even went to space, much less heard of a Gundam." 

Curious to learn more about the secretive boy's past, the gentle Arabian begins to lean closer with each question, unknowingly closing the physical distance between them in his eagerness to narrow the gap between what was and what is. Haltingly at first, but then with greater confidence and ease, he recounts his life and adventures with the first mercenary company. 

Throughout the recitation, Trowa was madly scrambling ahead, trying to protect his angel from the darkest elements while still desiring acceptance of his true self. "There's not much after that except hopping a transport, a long string of odd-jobs, then Doktor S and Heavyarms." 

"I... I never knew. I'm so sorry," his companion stammers, choking back tears. 

Confused, Trowa glances over. "Don't be, Quatre. None of it was your fault." He slides from the railing to comfort his friend, only to be weakly pushed back. 

"But--Midi Une's betrayal. Then when I nearly killed you and Heero with Wing Zero... how can you ever forgive me?" Quatre turns away, presenting his downcast profile to the setting moon. "How can I ever be forgiven?" he whispers, heedless of countless tears spilling from his aqua eyes to the uncaring pavement below. 

"Quatre, please don't be foolish. Midi Une made her choice and stood by it. You weren't well when I was hurt. No one could ever blame you for that." He hesitantly reaches out, wiping away a tear and secretly luxuriating in the brief touch. "I forgave you long ago... don't be so hard on yourself. 

"Besides, friends always forgive each other's mistakes. Otherwise, Heero would have really shot Duo on Day 3 of Operation Meteor." Several moments pass before the two collect themselves and stop laughing at the mental images of Duo's abundant pestering antics. 

Considerably cheered, Quatre is struck by a simple observation: "You have a very musical laugh, Trowa. I'm not sure I've ever heard it before." 

"I've never had much reason to try it out." 'Not before I met you.' 

"True enough," stifling another giggle. "Still, this forced vacation has done us both a world of good, wouldn't you say?" The lanky soldier nods in agreement as cathedral bells begin to divide the morning from the dark night. As if it were summoned, a breeze rustles along the waterfront, causing the blonde to shiver beneath the light jacket. 

"Are you alright? We should head back if you're not feeling well." Trowa clutches his friend's hand and draws it close, his fingers drifting to the wrist, searching for a steady pulse. "You're frozen solid," he admonishes. 

"Don't go to any trouble," Quatre protests as Trowa begins to gently chafe his hands. Gradually, circulation improved and even his fingertips warmed, he pulls away to face the city lights again. "The doctors said it will take time to completely heal, but I feel fine. I've just always been cold- natured." 

Responding to the underlying hint of steel he heard, Trowa quietly replies, "You're the most warm-hearted person I know." The unforeseen compliment makes Quatre blush alarmingly. He is quite glad the dark night obscures his face, or he would have been mortified. As the ensuing silence grows heavier, he thrusts his hands into his pockets and tries to distract himself by tracing constellations. 

"Spending your life among them alters you perception, doesn't it?" 

"I suppose so," comes the distant reply. 

"Long ago, people believed so many things about the stars. That they had magical powers and could influence everyday life. Great victories or disaster could be foreseen. There are even some legends about heroes and warriors being immortalized in the patterns." 

"Heroes and warriors? Perhaps we'll be named among them one day, along with the real Heero Yuy and the Peacecrafts, of course," he says, tone only slightly mocking. 

"Perhaps. I don't feel very heroic, really." Again a tiny pause threatens to lengthen dangerously. "Then again, they have many formations about dear friends and devoted couples, so I still have a shot at that category, right?" His self-deprecating chuckle hurts Trowa more than he would care to admit. 

"I think you've been a wonderful friend, Quatre." 

A near silent "Thank you" wafts to him. 

Picking up the conversational thread, Trowa searches the sky and points to a pair of stars close together. "I'd like to have that one, if I'm to get one at all. Then the observatories or whoever decides these things will just have to give you the one next to it. It wouldn't do to break up a set, after all." 

With a smile, Quatre turns to his friend. "Silly Trowa, those two are already named. That's Gemini, or Castor and Pollux from the Age of Fables." 

"Never heard of them. Gemini sounds like a mobile suit model, though." 

"It shall never cease to amaze me that they go around still using those names when they don't keep the classics in every school curriculum." 

A discrete cough was necessary before the wealthiest boy in known space remembered his friend's unorthodox upbringing. 

"Of course, many see them as just another outmoded remnant of a less enlightened time. Both views are perfectly valid." Stumbling so much and then launching into his "superior/pedantic" tone. Quatre is stunned by this change, this nervousness. 

Why does he care so much when it comes to Trowa's approval? The two are on equal footing in every way that matters, even if their social circles are light-years apart. He had only craved acceptance like this from one other person. And now that person was gone... 

"Anyway, Castor and Pollux were two brothers of divine birth in ancient Roman times. Their sister was the fair Helen, later of Trojan fame. They even rescued her from Theseus, but that's another story. The two boys were the best of friends, playing together when children and fighting by each other's side when adults. After many adventures, Castor was killed in a war. Pollux, consumed with grief, bargained with his father, the chief of gods, Jupiter. 

"He would give up his own life as ransom for that of his brother." 

The blonde pauses and interlaces his slender fingers, seeming pensive for a moment. Snapping back, he ploughs on. 

"Here, the versions split: in one, the brothers are united, alternately spending their time in the dead Underworld and in the Heavens; the more romantic tale (I'm quite partial to this one) has Jupiter rewarding the filial attachment by placing the brothers among the stars as Gemini the Twins. There are many stories like that one, people being preserved in one form or another for all eternity as a testament to their fair hearts, loyal friendships or brave deeds." 

Now ashamed by the thought he was showing off his education, Quatre once again turns away. "At least, that was how I was taught at Father's house. We were rather old-fashioned, I think. Yes, it would be a good thing to rename the old stars. Maybe it will make them sparkle all the more, ne? It seems that once we started to live among them, the mystery seemed to fade away. Somehow, though, I feel that the mystery and wonder grow when you get closer to them, make them your own." 

"That they do," murmurs Trowa, edging nearer. 

Craning his neck to take in the entire marbled sky, Quatre, lost in the spheres, begins to lean back. Just on the verge of losing his balance, he feels two hands gently catch him from behind. Slowly, they slip underneath his arms and join, allowing his partner to step even closer. He leans into the welcome warmth before looking up into his friend's eyes with a laugh. 

"Sorry about that. First time I've been swept off my feet by the universe's beauty." A puzzling new look crosses Trowa's normally staid countenance. Honest, passionate emotions soften his angular features. 

Later, when he would look back on the next few minutes, Trowa could not tell what force compelled him to act; perhaps it was the uncustomary wine at dinner, an indulgence Quatre had tried to talk him out of. Maybe the stars could influence human actions. He might even be able to use Duo's ordinary excuse and plead temporary insanity. To act after so many months of denial was, to say the least, surprising. Whatever the case, two people's lives changed on an empty Paris bridge. 

"That's funny... I was swept away by you the moment we met." 

It's no more than a puff of air, but the exhalation sends a shock of another type down the trapped Arabian's back. Stunned, he furrows his brow over this unexpected behaviour. He starts to turn out of the embrace. After a feeble struggle, he ends up still rooted to the spot, but facing his captor. 

With a genuine smile, Trowa leans down, brushing lips against those of his beloved. Gasping slightly, the blonde numbly allows the touch to deepen, his wide eyes sliding closed. Slow as an ice age, quick as lightening... they finally break apart. With a sigh, the clown frees himself of a final defense and rests his head against the Arabian's. 

Nuzzling the silken strands while occasionally ghosting kisses on the pale flesh of his dearest's neck, he murmurs, "My angel, I've wanted to tell you, to show you, how much you mean to me. Now... a New World is being built in the ashes of the old. Will you let me stand by you, help you?" 

Quatre's eyes snap open. Staring unseeing into the night, he shakes his head. He violently shoves away and rounds on Trowa. "I can't. I don't want..." he screams at his stunned friend. 

"Don't say it... please. You don't love me. I can't love you," he hisses. Slapping aside a questioning hand, the former pilot rushes off. 

"I don't even love myself," he gasps as cool air dries salty trails beneath dull orbs. 

Left behind, a slim shadow stands holding moonlight; hears not quickly fading footsteps, but rather the consuming roar of shattering hopes; sees the golden saviour of his humanity disappear into the darkening maw of oblivion. Brash youth, beaten down, replaces a familiar mask, hiding his vulnerability again.   
  
  


* * *


	2. Damage Control

**CUPID AND PSYCHE**   


* * *

**Part 2: Damage Control**   
  


* * *

_**Idiot. **_

Couldn't you see it coming? 

Imbecile. 

What makes you think you're that special? 

You've ruined the only close friendship you've had in years. 

'Wait. Catherine cares... doesn't she? And the others, too--' 

_**Ha. She only felt sorry for you. Just like the rest did--even the other pilots thought you were useless... lousy gundam always running out of munitions. And when you couldn't even protect yourself--you've always been such a joke. First a nobody, then a tool, and now some guy who just makes people laugh. **_

'No... it can't be true.' 

_**It is and you know it. I'm not sure what disgusts me more: how you've bumbled your way along, latching onto anyone and attempting to prove your self-worth; or the the fact you've been mooning over this unattainable boy. **_

Each day you were apart, you'd think of him and wish he were with you. Even when you were together, you were weak. Constantly following him... saying with your eyes "Look at me," each grudging word yelling "Speak to me," your body urging "Touch me." Don't deny how you felt every time he would say your name. 

One by one, you've collected them--words, glances, gestures--and turned them into some perverted scrapbook, memories with no real significance save that which only you place upon them. 

'...' 

_**Yes, I will allow for your pathetic fantasy, but why did you push it? Everyone has a dream or two, yet somehow they all keep themselves from acting out. Ordinary people have no trouble distinguishing what is reality, you know.**_

"Stop. Just.... please stop." The brunette pushes away from the sheltering wall and stalks into the early morning pedestrian traffic. Weariness hangs on his spare frame as he slumps into a cafe chair, the metal cool against his back. Hailing a waiter, Trowa orders coffee and a daily paper. 

Unsure of what he should do or say to repair the obvious rent in the relationship, he seeks a moment's escape in the bitter brew. Columns of newsprint waver and blur as his damaged armor crumbles. The mocking tone whispers ceaselessly as the boy's mind tries to wade through black and white rivers. 

It was a voice from his earliest memories. Callous and cruel, it destroyed him piecemeal from the inside; always insisting that everything would be better, easier if only he didn't care. 

_**If you aren't human, you don't feel... and if you don't feel, you won't get hurt.**_

Born of lonliness and a quiet desperation, it had become his primary, sometimes only, companion. At least, until-- 

With an internal scream of defiance, Trowa pulls his thoughts out of their circular path and focuses again on the paper. He carelessly scans headlines--endless political debates, massive restructuring of the global community and the reconstruction of both cities and colonies--only by checking the date below the main banner could one distinguish this edition from that of previous days, even weeks. 

Traffic outside the cafe begins to pick up as both citizens and tourists start their day in earnest. 

Contentiously refolding the paper, he leaves it on the wrought-iron table next to a pile of coins and trudges of to face Quatre. Clearly, he would have to apologize since the smaller youth had been so angry when last they were together. But say he's sorry for what--taking advantage of the situation? That just made it all sound so much more sordid than it was. 

'Plus, it's not as if it were anything more than a kiss. Totally acceptable behaviour between two close friends. Right. Nothing at all to be ashamed of, so it's time to stop being childish and go back to the hotel. Just act like everything's fine.' 

_**But it's not,**_ rebutted the niggling voice. _**There's no going back now.**_

Cursing that he could not repeat the last twelve hours, Trowa searches for an explanation, an excuse, any words that would serve to span the painful gap. However, he finds himself in the lobby far too soon without another plan of action but to leave. 

Fishing out the elevator key, he slips it in the keyplate and gives it a turn. He stares ahead, listening to the motor hum until the car stops at their floor. An entire level, occupied by a handful of people--Quatre had refused the large retinue his father had tended to travel with, but his safety was an issue on which key aides could not be swayed. Still, it was a security measure he would not have to live with much longer, reflects Trowa as he walks into his sitting room. 

He notices the door connecting his rooms to Quatre's is closed. Ordinarily left standing open, it had been an invitation to informality. No matter which hotel or city they were in over the past few weeks, the Arabian had always arranged for their sleeping quarters to be adjacent, if not part of the same large suite. 

Now, in light of his most recent blunders, Trowa could see only rejection and hatred in the wood grains. 

Crossing into the bedroom, he pulls a duffel from the wardrobe and starts to pile his clothes in. As half the garments had been gifts, formal and leisurewear, it does not take long for the brunette to pack. 

With a final sweeping look around the room, he spots a note lying flush on the bedside table. He can read the envelope's neat, even writing from the bed's foot. It is addressed simply to 'Trowa,' nothing more or less. Stepping closer, his hand trembles almost imperceptively as he examines the single loose sheet inside. Firm, deliberate strokes stare up at him from the hotel's heavy cream stationery. 

Please forgive the absence. Urgent corporation affairs have  
come to my attention. We expect to resolve matters within   
the week. I shall return at their conclusion. Until then,   
these accommodations shall be held at your disposal.   
Feel free to utilize the enclosed expense account.  
--Quatre 

He sinks onto the bed, numbly clentching both envelope and letter in confusion. A soft thud from the carpeted floor draws his attention to a tiny plastic rectangle. His own visage smiles up from a corner, beneath the Winner Corporation logo. 

At the outing's start, Quatre had jokingly added Trowa to company payroll as "travel advisor/companion." Claiming it was the easiest way to officially bypass lengthy background checks for what was nominally a business trip, the blonde's final argument had been "you wouldn't be registered if you were a security risk--listen, do you want to go some time this century or not?" 

The scene still brought a smirk to Trowa's lips. It had taken longer to coax a reluctant smile for the identification card than to enter a falsified record into the system. 

Breaking so many rules just to be publicly linked--he had read this as a sign of Quatre's willingness to explore a more intimate relationship, another nudge in a long series of coy remarks, knowing glances and feather-light touches. Now they meant less than nothing. 

Leaning back, he sprawls on the bed and tries to block out the voice clamoring fo him to run. _**He said he'd be back. He doesn't break promises. Leave before you embarrass yourself again.**_

"No. I'm expected to stay, so I will. I'll wait... then we'll talk out any misunderstandings and go from there..." 

Laughter rings hollowly through corridors of his mind.  
  


* * *

Nearly a week later, the former mercenary pauses before a small stone grouping of a winged male and a reclining female. Tucked away in one of the museum's larger galleries, he takes it at first as just another example of Neoclassical Italian sculpting: pleasing to the eye, but lacking a concentrated simplicity and focus on the human form characteristic of most Renaissance masters. Still, something about the sculpture calls to him. He flips through a guidebook, moving further into the corner as a loud group of tourists passes through. 

Trowa sits on an empty plinth's edge ("Removed due to restoration efforts.") and balances a small journal on one knee. Reading the abbreviated criticism of the statuary's history and artistic significance, he jots down an occasional entry. He adds a rudimentary sketch of the two figure's faces before closing the journal. 

"Ah, Canova." A dissonant voice directly behind him startles the youth. The speaker steps around and peers more closely at the exhibit's placard. "Yep. One of the better pieces, but still not my favorite depiction of these lovebirds. Takes all kinds, though." Twirling about in a garish display of brightly colored silks, the gray-haired matron pegs Trowa to his seat with a toothy grin. 

"Dr. Machina. Eugenia Machina of the University of Kentucky. That's in America, you know. Well, it was until that Peacecraft girl decided to turn us into one happy world-nation." She thrusts out a hand, stubby fingers covered in rings. "Anyway, good to meet ya." 

He ignores the outstretched hand. With a shrug, she drops it back to her side. "So, Romeo, what do you think?" she drawls, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. 

"It's certainly very nice." 

"Nice? What's ailing you, boy? That's not all you can say, is it," she queries. "A representation of the moment when love transforms the human soul into a thing of everlastin' beauty." She sweeps a hand toward the statue. "Nice," she spits. 

"Okay, you're probably preoccupied with your own romantic entanglements (oh, to be young again *sigh*), but you could still learn a few lessons from these guys. 

"Budge up and give an old lady some room to spin a yarn." Without a pause to see if he had moved, she plops herself down on the plinth and launches into a lengthy retelling of the myth captured in stone. 

Fortunately, Trowa is able to feign polite interest throughout the recitation, earning just one elbow-jab to the abdomen for a moment of inattention. "... curiosity, while an admirable trait, can sometimes lead to one's downfall--especially if it's provoked by jealousy like here. Keep awake, boy, 'cause that ain't the 'take home' message; that's a little later. So, anyway, next night he appeared under a cloak of darkness, like each time before..." 

'Just another example of someone not knowing when to leave well enough alone,' he thinks as she drones on. 

"... though her foolish actions had caused so much trouble, even to the point of physically injuring him, he still felt such love for her that his mother relented and allowed them to be reunited. The girl was awoken and they lived happily ever after, as all sparkly couples should." The dame shakily regains her feet. Amiably patting the brunette's head, she gives a final bit of advice before tottering off. 

"Few things in life are truly worth fighting for: family, friends, and love. Do whatever you can to keep and protect them." Unknowingly echoing another's words, she leaves him to ponder in silence. 

Hours later, Trowa stops by the front desk on his way to a solitary dinner ensuite. "Any messages for a Mr. Barton on the fourteenth floor?" he asks. 

Each evening he had repeated the ritual, hopeful that there would be some word from Quatre, either negative or positive. Each night he had been tossed back into a state of uncertainty, again to wait. As he stiffened his resolve for another dismissal, the receptionist turns from a bank of pigeonholes. 

"Indeed, sir," she replies, passing over a folded sheet before gliding off to assist a second guest. She returns to the former pilot. "Anything else I can do for you, sir?" she questions. 

"Do you know who left this?" 

"Well, it's not hotel stock," indicating the paper, "so I'd say it was brought in by the writer. We could check the lobby camera logs if you wish, Mr. Barton." 

"No. That won't be necessary." He crumples the leaf in one hand, obscuring all three inked words of the message. "I believe I am familiar with the author. You could say we have something of a history."   
  
  


* * *


	3. Misty, Water-coloured Memories...

**CUPID AND PSYCHE**   


* * *

**Part 3: Misty, Water-coloured Memories...**   
  


* * *

A stitch in his side finally stops the desperate flight. Slouched against a lamp-post, he doubles over and tries to calm down, ragged breaths gradually giving way to a steady rhythm. The Arabian straightens slowly before orienting himself. 'Okay, it can't be far to the Metro. Practically everywhere is five blocks from a station. Just gotta keep moving.' 

With no clear destination in mind, he steps into the dark, wincing at the occasional twinge in his chest. As each pain flares, he relives every terrifyingly bittersweet moment of the evening. Somehow reaching a service entrance to his hotel, Quatre slips up to his suite and locks the door. Numb fingers caress trembling lips. Collapsing onto the floor, he curls into himself as overwhelming sensations crash over him again. 

Swimming stars, emerald pools--then... 

Warmth... a sense of safety... love... they envelope the broken soldier, washing over half-buried pains to gently soothe. 'Such freedom of spirit. Joyful carelessness like I haven't felt in years.' 

_**--An image of sunlit fields and wildflowers. A child tentatively reaches out, his fingers inching toward a daisy and its fluttering guardian. **_

"Pretty," he whispers. Holding very still, he is rewarded when the cerulean butterfly lights on his hand before flitting away. He waves goodbye and turns, laughing to a mustachioed man. "It was so soft, Daddy," he says, grabbing the smiling adult's arm.-- 

'Father.' Unbidden, more recent memories surface: 

_**--"Disobedient son!" **_

"I don't care. I'll fight for peace because someone has to make a stand."   
  


--lasers bore through the satellite, destroying another hope to end the war between Earth and the colonies... destroying a young man's fragile grasp on sanity.   
  


--he kneels by a granite marker. Laying his palm flat against the inscription, he stammers "I'm so sorry, Father. I never wanted to disappoint you... I just can't be everything--" Choking back tears he had been surpressing for days, weeks, he stands and locks his gaze on a distant point. 

"I promise I'll make you proud. By Allah, I will."-- 

'Allah.' 

_**--"Absolutely deplorable behaviour. Bad enough the courts try to legitimize what those people do, but to parade around in public..." His tutor roughly pulls the child toward a crosswalk. Curious, the boy cranes his neck and drags his heels. **_

"What? I don't see anything." 

Stiffly nodding at a couple across the thoroughfare, the instructor sneers, "Those abominations, flaunting their perverse association and lust. Remember, young master, that Allah created both men and women, one for the other. And to go against his desires--" 

"Is to forever remove your soul from the blessed union true believers enjoy in this life and beyond," the boy replies mechanically. 

"Right. Good to see not all my breath is wasted on you. Now hurry or we'll be late. You're in enough trouble as it is, sneaking away like that."-- 

Physical discomfort ebbing to a dull, steady ache, the blonde pushes himself into a sitting position. "Forgive me, Father. My judgement was clouded, but it's time I accept my responsibility and come home," he murmurs. Within the hour, a taxi is whisking the heir to the closest airport. At dawn, he waits as the shuttle captain prepares the craft for a journey where the youth believes he belongs: outer space.   
  


* * *

"More tea, master Quatre?" A polite and gentle prod rouses the napping youth. Blinking away unpleasant dreams and rubbing bloodshot eyes, he nods to his father's assistant. No, his assistant now. He had been back in the corporation's L4 office for five days; but it still felt as though everyone was playing along to his suggestions, patiently indulging him as they waited for someone more forceful, knowledgeable, qualified to take command. 

"I have the files you requested earlier. Your schedule is clear after this afternoon's meeting with McGuffin. Perhaps I could arrange an evening's entertainment? You know what they say about all work and no play..." 

Shuffling the additional folders to one side, he does not look up as he dismisses the aide. "No, thank you. I'm afraid it's going to be another long night getting up to speed on new accounts." 

The silver tea service clinks faintly as it is placed on the desk's corner. Taking a seat nearby, the older man leans forward. "I've worked for this company over thirty years--for your father almost twenty. I've known you since the day you were born. Something's wrong." 

Quatre pushes away from his desk and fixes a bemused expression on his face. "While I do appreciate the concern, everything is fine, Hassan." 

"Hmm. Voluntarily leaving a well-deserved vacation to bury yourself in trivial matters, minutia that are ordinarily dealt with by a staff of bureaucrats specially employed for such tasks. Oh, yes. Just another humdrum day like all the others," he sarcastically replies. 

"There's no need to be so facetious," the blonde hotly warns. 

Spreading his hands in mock defeat, Hassan moves further back. "Thought you might need someone to talk things over with. It can get awfully lonely up here at times." 

"Like I said, I'm fine." Apparently accepting the finality of Quatre's tone, Hassan rises. He reaches toward the tray and pauses. 

"A very wise man once said you can never run so fast or so far that your problems won't be there waiting for you." With a slight smile, he turns to leave. 

Intrigued despite himself, the blonde stops him and motions for him to return. "Who said that, a prophet? Great statesman?" 

"Nope. My dad." A soft chuckle breaks into a tired laugh. Hassan resumes his seat opposite the weary boy. 

Sighing, Quatre tilts his head back and closes his eyes. "Rest assured you did well by not following in his footsteps--wisdom ill suits you." 

"As poorly as worry does you, master," he shoots back, again serious. 

"Oh, and what makes you think I'm avoiding something? That I've got a difficulty worthy of your humble scrutiny?" He picks up the neglected china cup with its now tepid liquid, frowning between sips. 

"You've just got this haunted look I know I've seen somewhere before... you didn't get some girl in trouble on your trip, did you?" 

Sputtering and coughing, Quatre attempts to regain his composure. "NO!" he finally manages. 

"Thought I'd ask. No harm in it, right? Now let's see, what else could it be..." Hassan casts his eyes around the office. "Whatever it is, you've been here and awake each night since the shuttle docked. Such weighty burdens become much lighter when shared." 

"My father, in one of his more oracular moments, said 'Don't poke your nose in things that don't concern you, son.' I believe you would do well to heed that advice." 

Hassan, with a false air of injury, retrieves the service and bows his way out a side door. "You know where to find me if ever you need me. Now, most esteemed master, this miserable servant begs his leave of you." 

Spirits raised for the first time in days, Quatre allows a brief genuine smile. Clearing aside a few of the more sensitive documents, he calls the outer office secretary by intercom. "Claire, would you please let me know when the McGuffin party arrives?" 

A curt "Of course, Mr. Winner," comes before she cradles the reciever. The Arabian slips off his shoes and tucks his feet underneath him. Settling comfortably in the oversized leather chair, he relaxes for a few moments. 

'Oh, Trowa, I'm still not sure what to do about you. I thought distance and work would clear my mind, but it's all for naught. Why can't I just forget you and go on? I know it's wrong to feel like this, but am I not permitted a single selfish desire?' 

Emotional and physical exhaustion sweeps over him. As he begins to nod off again, the main door opens to reveal a short, mousey man in a shabbily-cut suit, hat riding low on his head, and flanked by mobile walls of muscle. 

The blonde jumps to attention, hastily shoving his shoes back on before rushing to meet them with a practiced, disarming grin. "Mr. McGuffin, gentlemen--it seems you've caught me slightly off guard. Let me assure you we have thoroughly reviewed your proposal and shall be able to assist each other in meeting a common goal." 

Shaking hands all around, he directs them to chairs which the two hulking "gentlemen" ignore. 'Why didn't Claire warn me? She's supposed to be screening people,' he fumes. 

"Yes, Mr. Winner, I do believe we can do business together," says McGuffin in a curiously high-pitched voice, reaching into his coat. Without warning, he brings a small pistol to bear and pulls the trigger. 

"What..." Quatre begins, staring at the small feathered bolt as it quickly pumps a clear liquid into his chest. He tears it out and lunges to slap a concealed switch on his desk to summon security forces. Already fatigued, the blonde easily slips unconscious, slumping to the floor.   
  
  


* * *


	4. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...

**CUPID AND PSYCHE**   


* * *

**Part 4: To Sleep; Perchance to Dream...**   
  


* * *

Darkness. 

Infinite night. 

Cold, silent ebony slickness ceaselessly tugging the mind into torturous curves and bends. Forcing introspection to a dangerous, soul-eating level. Deprived of all other sensation or orientation, a human will retreat, falling further inward until only an animalistic core shines out madly. 

Lost in this harsh realm, he floats--alone and past fear. There is nothing left: no hope, no salvation. 

An eternity gently unfolds, lazily spinning eons end over end until it  happens. With no warning, he is consumed by a stellar-bright purity. Scouring the raw consciousness, it floods to every corner, exposing and destroying. Crashing waves of pain carry with them the faded reassurance of a physical form. He begins to track that thought--grasping out and, relieved, senses boundaries. 

The surrounding, pervading light peels back, becoming dimmer and clouded. No, the splotches move about in front of a blank surface. Slowly, he realizes each rounded shape is a form like himself. One stoops closer, filling his field of vision, and emits a modulated sound. Speech recognition centers are prodded to life, processing the noise into recognizable images and concepts. 

"I think he's coming around, doctor." It ducks away to be replaced by the other blur which gradually clears. As it speaks, comprehension dawns for the boy, dragging along the dreadful knowledge that while he had suffered at these hands before, an unholy agony likely still laid in store. 

"Ah... and how are you feeling today, my good sir?" the physician queries with a brittle, glimmering smile. 

Glaring in open contempt, the youth vainly attempts to move away from chill, probing hands. "Just peachy, McGuffin," he hoarsely responds. 

Snickering unctuously, the spare man nods to the room's other occupant. "Such kind words our patient has to thank us for our valiant efforts in his time of need." The nurse remains in the sterile background, now as much an immobile, passionless thing as the bank of monitors she keeps an eye on. She gives no indication she heard his comment. 

"Hopefully you are in a more cooperative mood this time, Mr. Winner. I do so hate using more indelicate methods to obtain information. It would be a pity to permanently damage so delightful a specimen as yourself," he says, gently running the back of his hand down Quatre's cheek. 

Firmly strapped to a bed by no fewer than nine sturdy leather bands, he is overcome with a sense of helplessness. The blonde is not able to lift his head from the thin pillow to more completely survey his prison. He makes a futile furtive effort at furthering any possible escape by slowly tensing his muscles and applying force against each restraint. 

Even this small movement is detected by McGuffin. He shakes his head in disapproval. "My dear boy, I thought you were so much smarter than that. If you would only cooperate, we could all have ever so lovely a time becoming the best of friends." 

He walks out of the Arabian's field of vision for a moment. The doctor returns with a metal clipboard binding a sheaf of papers. Flipping through the data, he makes a decision: "As much as it truly pains me to admit, pharmaceutical advances have yielded less than satisfactory results. Perhaps it is time for a return to the more time-honoured approaches for information extraction?" 

Quatre turns a shade paler when he detects the tone of unchecked malice McGuffin manages to eloquently emote. He closes his eyes in an effort to summon his remaining resolution, missing his captor's beckon. 

"Most charming nurse, could you please see to it that every monitoring device is disconnected from Mr. Winner. I am afraid they are far too sensitive to withstand prudent levels of applied voltage." 

Falling further, Quatre folds himself behind mental defenses. This time he actively attempts a complete severance of his corporeal and intangible aspects. 

'I must not give them the opportunity... have to remain strong until I get a chance to escape.' 

Although he can still sense the bright room from behind closed eyelids, he is confident he can tolerate physical discomfort. 'I guess it's time to prove how right you were, Father. I got my defiant streak from you, after all,' the blonde has time to think before a cool gel is applied to various points on his body. 

"Make sure electrode contact is maximized--yes, I believe that will do nicely," McGuffin says as he wheels a small cart closer to the bed. "Eyes open, boy," he demands, slapping Quatre with an open palm. "I have a few questions for you." 

With a feral snarl, he slits his teal orbs. 

"We'll see how complacent you can become, won't we?" The balding gent passes his hand over a dial-studded device on the cart, sending a tingling wave through Quatre. Two gazes lock as the boy's tormentor slowly increases the voltage output. 

"You should feel a most exquisite sort of pain now: countless needles pricking the flesh; a layer of heat spreading from head to toe, yet localized to within an inch of the epidermis." Phrases slotting effortlessly into place, he continues with a practiced and leisurely air. 

"It's all really quite pleasant at this stage. However," he adds, twisting a knob until it clicks once, "the other levels leave much to be desired." 

Grimacing at blossoming agonies, Quatre sneers. "Do your worst, but I'll never talk." 

With a tiny sigh of feigned resignation, McGuffin replies, "How very trite. You will see reason though--in time." He ramps up the power by a factor of three, cutting out several paths of resistors. A wan smile plays across his lips before he returns the device to a lower setting. 

Anguished screams echo from the walls. Panting, Quatre slumps back against the mattress and tries to calm his rapidly beating heart. After a moment to catch his breath, he reiterates--a gasping, raspy "Never." 

"I enjoy challenges, you know. We'll find something that suits you, yes? 

"After all, there are still nine more settings to try."   
  


* * *

Hours later, McGuffin wearily stalks down featureless hallways. Stopping in front of a door exactly the same as those all about, he enters a darkened room. A raised dias occupies the sole area of light. Illumination increases as he mounts the platform. Kneeling low, he bows his fringed head and waits, shrouded in silence. 

An imperious voice booms from an enormous glittering image seconds after it winks into existence before him. "Report, vile worm." 

Sinking even closer to the floor in groveling obeisance, he begins his appraisal of the situation. 

"My Lady, I am most ashamed that I can not confirm certain areas of intelligence concerning the subject. No less than twelve potent substances ordinarily capable of rendering complete submission were introduced in as many attempts to gain the required information." 

He dares to elevate his head and addresses a larger-than-life hologram of an obscured figure. "Each compound was ineffectual in non-lethal dosages, if your Grace will recall from my earlier communications." 

In the pause before he receives a response, he again mulls over the time lag necessary with sub-light speed transmissions. He had tried to figure the relative position of his employer based on the short delays, but never observed a reproducible interval value. 

"Yes, your failures spring readily to mind," the voice answers testily. 

Assuming another posture of servility, McGuffin resumes his prepared speech. "Forgive me, Lady. Nevertheless, we are not to be discouraged for even in the insensible ramblings recorded near the end of some trials can we obtain miniscule insight into the subject. Determine a weakness, perhaps." 

A slightly shorter pause this time. "Have you made concrete progress of any sort?" An underlying tone of angry accusation causes a twinge of trepidation in the white-coated man. 

"As the subject is apparently well-trained or guarded against certain interrogative techniquess, I have been forced to utilize more drastic means." He produces a data disk and pops it into a handheld transmitter. The data stream piggybacks a ride on the holographic system, arriving at his employer's computer as his next words leave his mouth. 

"It seems the tried and true approaches still have a place in the modern world. While the subject remains obstinately reticent, I believe he is close to the breaking point. Lady, if you would kindly review the relevant files, you perhaps will agree." 

Head downcast, he maintains his position for several minutes. 

"Hmm. You may proceed with the current mode of inquiry. However, do not fail me by being either too lenient or strict with our... guest. Your time runs short, but we need his health relatively preserved. Use your discretion." 

The frigid dismissal coming as somewhat of a relief, McGuffin rises, bows and leaves the dias. He makes his way back to personal quarters within the compound, completely unaware of the singular meeting ocurring in a room corridors and levels removed: 

"Each moment with that oaf taxes my patience, Edward. If only he weren't so damned useful with specialized services, I would be rid of him in a moment." 

The same voice which so unnerved the doctor merely grates upon the nerves of her servant as he goes about at her bidding. Holographic imagers now idle, the female leans back and scans the video portion of McGuffin's latest "research." 

She frowns and creases her forehead in a combination of peevishness and confusion as she replays a segment. 

"So the other is that significant to you--are you actually so inordinately fond of him? You are a puzzle, Quatre Raberba Winner. I have no doubt of that." Cross-referencing older files, she makes a few notations. 

Tension mounting with each keystroke, Edward breaks protocol by interrupting. "But, please, Miss... you must know what that devil's capable of. How can you let him have free rein with such an important hostage." 

Steely eyes bore into him. She casts aside the reports and rears like a vengeful goddess. "Do not presume to understand such weighty matters as those which plague me, insolent whelp." Crouching pitifully, he shies from her advance. 

"No, Mistress! I merely thought--" he gibbers, trying to minimize himself. "Surely a precious commodity like the boy will be useless to us if McGuffin's inquiries are allowed to continue." 

With an utterly mirthless grin, she brings back her open hand and swings at him. To his surprise, she slows and gently taps the side of his face in a patronizing manner. 

"After being privy to many fascinating facets of my campaign, you have yet to grasp a fundamental notion: the boy is no longer important. He is, and has been since his capture, but one piece of bait for my true quarry: Trowa Barton."   
  
  


* * *


	5. Endgame

**CUPID AND PSYCHE**   


* * *

**Part 5: Endgame**   
  


* * *

He bolts down yet another blank hallway, sure that each step is bringing him closer to his final mission's objective. Diving around a corner, the brunette fetches up against the far wall. He fires from his low position, efficiently dispatching more guards. Straining his ears to detect the slightest abnormal noise, he pads over to the nearest body and inspects it. 

'Something of a professional,' he assesses with a practiced eye. 'Must be getting very close indeed. Only her personal forces would be adequately trained to repel an invasionary strike.' Crouching amidst the remains, he recalls the past few days' events--a strange sequence culminating in a reluctant return to guerilla tactics with which he is all too familiar.   
  


* * *

::: Within moments of returning to his Parisian suite, Trowa had contacted via a secure line the planetside representatives of Winner Corporation. The remainder of that day and a majority of the following one were consumed in a frustrated attempt to ascertain the heir's whereabouts. Only after he had browbeaten an already slightly concussed Hassan did he learn of the successful abduction. 

Temporarily freed from the taxing and bewildering task of keeping the media unaware of recent developments, the aide related all he knew. In hindsight, the hastily arranged meeting with McGuffin was an obvious ruse, merely a pretense for unobtrusive infiltration. Once inside the building's high-security perimeter, the small band easily immobilized remaining threats, person by person. 

Upon regaining consciousness, Hassan discovered the plot and alerted the chief of security. Unfortunately, the group had already slipped through the defense net. 

"No one thought a kidnapper would have the audacity to schedule the attempt. We designed the system to prevent facile access to the Master, but neglected to reinforce possible exit pathways. We were overconfident. Perhaps fatally so," the aide shamefully informed Trowa. 

Recordings from closed-circuit cameras stationed throughout the upper levels revealed a clearly rehearsed strike utilizing the assistance of recently developed technology. Short segments of each tape showed only cleared hallways where Trowa postulated the assailants had crossed. Whether they had a device to loop a recorded image, project a realistic hologram, or had a mole within the corporation, he didn't care. It was enough to know something important to him had been taken. 

Ringing off, he then turned to the evidence at hand. McGuffin Mining Operations was a legitimate colonial company--that is until one looked closer at falsified documentation. Shaking his head at the barely concealed electronic trail, Trowa zeroed in on an insignificant address listed as a tertiary holding. He actually laughed when he cross-referenced it with an outdated personal database of known Romefeller properties. 

'First you tip your hand with that blatant note, then you flaunt your influence in a dangerous stunt. There's got to be a reason why you've made it so easy to track you--is that what you want: someone to find you?' Trowa thought as he readied himself for the chase. :::   
  


* * *

  


According to classified blueprints he had uncovered, he is a few hundred meters from her most likely hiding place. Leaving bodies behind, the former mercenary sprints to the next corner and steels his courage. Once again he curses a general lack of cover and flings himself out into the next hall, meeting no resistance. 

He counts nearly invisible doors as he stalks. Bringing his gun about, he palms open the portal. A quavering voice greets the youth. 

"Halt, intruder." 

Trowa recognizes that any sudden movement on his part would be seen by the amateur as a threat. Slowly holstering his weapon, he raises his hands. Confident the other's lack of training gives the proven soldier every advantage, he plays along. 

"My mistress has been waiting for you, Barton. Forward." The underling motions with his rifle to a second exit. The brunette approaches it, but launches into an unsophisticated attack when passing close to the lackey. A quick combination of punches and a bone-snapping kick leave the man in a heap. 

"I'll see myself in, thank you." He crosses into a room beyond the empty antechamber. Three walls are covered by screens and computer terminals. Before one station, off to the right, is a high-backed chair. The door slides shut behind him, yet the chair's occupant remains turned away. 

"My, my. How terribly rude of you to take so long in answering my invitation." It's a voice he had not heard in months: fierce yet feminine, demanding with a hint of possible supplication. 

"I thought the path was easy enough for a skilled hunter such as yourself," it purred. 

"Where is he, Dorothy? I know you have him near," Trowa fires, face set in a mask of chill retribution. 

She abruptly rises from her seat and turns to him. Her long golden hair swings wide, rustling against formal attire. Peevishly, she pokes a finger at his chest. "I will ask the questions, foolish boy. That's why you're here, after all--to give me some answers in return for your precious." 

Momentarily inclining her head toward the outer room, she queries, "Did you kill Edward?" 

"No. He is not a soldier and will not die at my hands." He doesn't understand her erratic behaviour, but if there is a chance of finding Quatre... 

She smiles and nods to herself. "Just as I thought. You've been an interesting study so far, Mr. Barton--or should I say Mr. Bloom?" 

Sea-green eyes narrow. Dorothy allows the alien jovial expression to remain throughout her narrative. 

"Yes, Triton Bloom. Only son of a small Earth family. Though they were merely humble members of a tiny travelling circus, both parents and the boy were killed in a skirmish between Alliance and rebel forces approximately fifteen years ago. At least that is what the fourth and final member believes. Little Catherine grew up sheltered by other nomadic performers, forever blaming impersonal militaristic actions for her loved ones' deaths. 

"How fitting then that her dear brother not only escaped his parents' fate, but also became a model mercenary--the incarnation of senseless destruction she so despised." 

She walks back to a console and calls up several data files. Gesturing to one as it scrolls by, she resumes speaking. Trowa listens to her words, but continues watching the screen when it begins to display images of a child known simply as Nanashi. 

"It was a long process, obtaining this information. However, there is always a means if one is truly determined. 

"No one knew who this child was and none seemed to care where he was going. After years on the battlefields of Earth, he fled to outer space and eventually insinuated himself in the Barton Foundation as a mechanic. Still nameless, and some even say soul-less, he came to replace the original pilot of Gundam 03. 

"The newly christened Trowa Barton should have been the leader of Operation Meteor, a plan to eliminate all order on Earth. Instead, through actions of his own and by the invisible hand of fate, not only was this arrogation foiled, but the agressive colonies entered a tentative truce with a weary world, harmony has apparently been restored, and a family was unknowingly reunited." 

Steepling her fingers, Dorothy leans back against a terminal. She takes in the stunned expression on Trowa's normally inscrutable countenance. "All of it is true... your history, the formative forces of your personality, your role in history as it shall be written." 

Left hand twitching in surpressed rage, he stands otherwise unmoving. "Then that means... your note--_**'Return to nothing.'**_ If you've harmed Catherine as well..." he warns. 

"On the infinitesimal chance you suspected me tampering with your 'surrogate' sister, I did send some lads to watch her. Either at my signal or upon confirmation of your arrival at the staging site, they were instructed to slay all circus personnel and any unlucky spectators who could stand as witness. I believed, rightly so, you would follow the Winner boy instead," she explains. "It always pays to have a contingency plan." 

"Why are you holding either of them? I'm here. Release them." 

Her smile fading to a hard, thin line, she levels an exacting stare at the youth. "They may be spared if you tell me all I want: given your background and obvious lack of regard for the sanctity of life--" She indicates another flickering screen, this one with a list of confirmed deaths due to the recent war. "Why are you still risking yourself for another?" 

Trowa cannot stop himself from wondering aloud at the request. "You seem to know so much about me already; but if you don't see that I care for them, you are far more misguided and delusional than I supposed from our previous meeting." 

She petulantly stamps her foot. "There must be more than nebulous generalizations, meaningless maxims! How can someone devoid of basic human qualities later embrace and defend a policy of enlightened pacifism?" 

Assuming a placid attitude, he truthfully responds. "Because I lived in the darkness, I value the light." 

He does not retreat or retaliate when Dorothy clutches at his shirt and screams, tears starting to trickle down. 

"Then why doesn't everyone realize that? Why hasn't humanity changed? Why are people still so petty?" 

Eyes imploring, beseeching him in visible turmoil, she sobs. Voice cracking under emotional strain, she begs, "Why can't I be strong?" 

Slowly, he brings her close for a short hug then guides her away and into the nearest seat. "You can be strong... in your kindness. Quatre saw it in you. Use it as your support." 

She slouches in the chair. Too embarrassed by her weakness to look at him, she examines her empty hands. Dully, she begins again--in a voice almost too low to be heard. 

"When it was all over, I really tried... I tried to find a purpose, but there was only an empty ache--a desire without a name, just a blazing urgency to be filled. You defeated me--were more powerful in a way I could not comprehend. So to become better, I had to understand the source of your strength, assume it if possible. 

"I had to in order to bring about the end of all war, all pointless hatred and sorrow. They tell me the struggle is over; but I don't believe them. How can it be when the seeds of destruction are still growing... still nurtured by every living person?" 

She dares to glance up, but quickly hides her face. She turns back to the unjudging floor tiles. 

"That's when I remembered something, a way to find an ending. I was also told that when I was very small, I was given a series of intelligence tests. One was a simple maze with a line drawing of a mouse to one side and a wedge of cheese at the other end. The administrator thought I was somehow deficient for no matter how patiently she explained the procedure, I would first trace with my finger a path from cheese to mouse, then follow it in reverse with a pencil. 

"She asked me 'Why?' and all I could say was 'It's much easier when you do it this way--you don't get distracted when you've seen the goal from both sides.' 

"I needed someone like that... somebody who has made the transition so I could formulate an approach that would work." 

Reading a fragment of sincerity in her despair, Trowa places a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "To change our destiny, we must strive for the greater good. Sacrifice all we are in a bid to show at least one person they can rise above their own self-defeating image. Someone helped me realize the enormity of humankind's potential. Let me help you... let us both help you," he finishes pointedly. 

"Show me where Quatre is and we can all start to heal." 

Nodding, she numbly gets to her feet and trudges toward the medical wing of the complex, Trowa in tow. Outside the appropriate room, she pauses. 

"I... I can't go in and face him. Not after all I've done to hurt him. Throwing him to a spineless bully like McGuffin..." 

Resolute, he grasps her hand and pulls her into the room behind him. "Fears are often proven groundless in the morning sun," he assures her. 

The doctor and nurse notice their entrance. "Your Grace, to what do I owe the pleasure of your appearance?" McGuffin stammers, bowing deeply. 

Rearing regally with the last of her mental reserves, Dorothy stabs at the man with an unyielding look of enmity. "Leave me and never darken my day again." Snivelling, he scuttles out and is followed more sedately by his assistant. 

Trowa rushes over to the bed. In a flurry of motion, he unbuckles each restraint before removing sensors and an I.V. tube, fingers skimming over both the recent bruises and older scars. Hesitating for the tiniest fraction of a moment, he gently brushes aside limp platinum hair and whispers a kiss on his beloved's forehead. 

Stirring by degrees, the small blonde blinks a few times. As he looks up into worried emerald eyes, he gives a slight gasp. "Trowa... you've come for me," he murmurs, a drowsy smile playing across his lips. 

"Of course I'm here. I couldn't let you go away before I told you-- _**Je t'aime**_, dear Quatre. I love you." Although his tone is tender and soothing, he braces himself for the inevitable rejection once the young man registers the comment. 

Surprisingly, the recumbent youth instead reaches out and weakly interlaces his fingers with Trowa's. Covering their joined hands with his other, Quatre gingerly attempts to sit up. Trowa supports him using his free hand and drapes a sheet over the thin gown once he is upright. 

"In my greatest hour of uncertainty, I first became aware that my heart... my heart beats for you alone," the blonde says softly. 

"As does mine for you," declares his closest companion. 

A sob breaks the solemnity and draws their attention to a shattered figure slumped against a bare wall. Sliding from the bed, Quatre unsteadily makes his way toward it. 

"Dorothy?" 

She shys away, choking out "I'm so sorry... I didn't mean..." 

With the beatific smile of a saviour, he sinks to his knees. "That's O.K. It'll be alright," he says as he folds her to his chest. She rests her head on his shoulder, no longer afraid.   
  


* * *

  
  


**--One child of war rails in his loneliness, crying out at the swirling maelstrom--lost-- **

--Becomes two, huddling together beneath the scant protection afforded by compassion-- 

--Becomes three, standing united in forgiveness as the dividing line vanishes-- 

--Becomes a legion, each touched by the emissaries of love-- 

--Becomes... _Peace_   
  
  
  


* * *

--Owari   
  
  


* * *


End file.
